Defiance
by Rhexis
Summary: Set during the first season, somewhere between Faith and Nightmare; Sam and Dean get into trouble beneath the town of Defiance, Ohio. Dean is determined to protect Sam; however, when the tables are turned can Sam save his big brother? Rated M for violence. P.S. I don't own these guys.


Dean Winchester dropped onto the bed nearest the door. He stretched, then crossed his arms beneath his head and closed his eyes. Sleep would be great, but Sam had that look, the one of perpetual college research mode. Sam sat at the motel room's wonky table: his eyes fixed on the crumpled papers laid out before him. Wasn't ten hours straight driving enough work for one night?.

"Damn," Sam said, quietly enough to pretend he was willing to let Dean sleep, but loud enough to prevent it.

Dean did his best to ignore it. Ignoring Sam had never made him go away before, but it was worth a try.

"Damn," Sam said, louder, more insistent.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed. Maybe if he concentrated really hard.

"Dean, I've got it," Sam said.

Dean raised himself up on one elbow and stared at Sam's frown. "So, why the sad face?"

"I've found an ancient text. Eighteenth century. Explains everything."

"Again, why the sad face?"

"It's in German."

Dean laid back down. "No translation?"

"Yes."

"So, what's the problem?"

"It's in French."

"And college boy isn't fluent in either? Sammy, you're such a disappointment." Dean laid back down on the bed. His sore eyes drifted closed and his breathing slowed.

Sam got up and walked over to the fridge, opened the door, pulled two beers from inside; opening both before wandering over towards the beds. He sat on the edge of the empty bed and knocked the cool bottle against Dean's bare arm. Dean grabbed it and rested the base on his chest.

Sam took a sip from the bottle, then a gulp. "This is a waste of time."

"Sam, please, not again. I said we'd look for Dad and we will."

"Not what I mean, Dean. Unless you speak German or French we're not getting any closer to the mystery."

"Doesn't Google speak German?"

"What?"

"Can't you just find a translator website and copy the text?"

"Not really."

"Can't you let me sleep?"

"Not when another vengeful spirit is drowning people!"

"It's 3am, Sam. Let me get a couple of hours sleep, and then we'll go see the body, okay?"

Sam took another swig of beer.

"Okay?" Dean muttered.

"Okay."

#

Dean pushed the door open, and then entered the morgue reception. He let go of the door, slightly disappointed as Sam managed to catch it inches before it hit his nose. He could imagine the expression on Sam's face. Picking at Sam when they were in fed mode would probably be the only fun part of the day; he deserved it for dragging Dean away from his bed at a crazy hour for no reason. They were too far from a solution for a kill. What on earth could Sam see in a drowning? Sure, Lake Manitoc had been a doozy, but two vengeful spirits in a few short months. Unlikely, even in his line of work.

Dean flashed his hastily made badge at the receptionist. "Agent Roeser, Agent Bloom," he said, waving his hand at Sam, "here to see the Gregor body." He smiled at the receptionist. Her eyes sparkled as they met his. Leaning on the counter, he fixed her with his best grin and was about to speak when Sam interrupted him.

"Now, please," Sam said, treading on Dean's toe, "we're in a hurry."

The woman glanced at Sam. Her gaze lingered on his cheekbones.

"We were in the area and our commander asked us to sort this out," Sam said. Gregor was a suspect in a federal case."

"What kind of case?" the receptionist asked, smiling a little too much at Sam.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Sam said, flashing his puppy dog eyes at her. Forceful with a hint of vulnerability. Good choice. "Can you buzz us through?"

She nodded: her curls shivering for Sam. She pressed a button on the desk and a set of double doors swung open. The stench of death flooded into reception. Would he ever get used to that? Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe the day he got used to it was the day he was ganked in a cellar. Not again. Not after the last time.

Sam nodded: a nod filled with the smugness of a man asking for a kicking. He turned and walked through the open door; the receptionist watching as he walked, her eyes focusing on his back. His lower back. Or so Dean suspected. Dean followed his not-so-little brother. The doors swung closed behind him. Dean sped up to catch Sam and slapped him on the back of the head.

"Hey!" Sam said.

"That's for not letting me sleep." He would take his time getting back at Sam for distracting the hot chick.

"Yeah, right," Sam said. Dean wished they did not know each other half so well. Twenty plus years of close quarters should have forced them apart; it still might.

Down the corridor, an attendant pushed a gurney from room to room. The wheels squeaked like a cemetery gate; one of those abandoned places at the wrong end of a county road.

Sam pushed the inner morgue door open and stopped suddenly in the doorway. Dean stood on his tiptoes to see over Sam's overgrown shoulder.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Hmm," Sam murmured in a tone so low only Dean would have heard, and only because he had heard confused Sam a thousand times. He poked his brother in the back. Sam stepped into the room.

Dean stepped around him and looked at the body on the morgue table. "Hmm," he said.

Sam tilted his head to one side and opened and closed his mouth.

"What is that?" Dean asked.

"It looks like the body..."

"Exploded." the coroner said. She pulled on a pair of blue medical gloves and walked over to the body which lay on an examination table in the middle of the room.

Sam was not going to spoil Dean's chances with this one. She was so petite Dean wondered how she handled the rib spreaders, and her hair was a little too brassy for a coroner, but that was ok provided she did not prefer Sam. Dean shoved his way past his brother, and laid on his best smile.

"FBI?" the coroner asked.

Sam nodded. "Agent Bloom," he said.

"I'm Agent..." Dean stopped talking; the woman was not even looking at him, much less listening.

"Doctor Hendry," she said, her eyes not leaving Sam's face.

"This is the Gregor body?" Sam asked. He walked up to the table and peered at the broken flesh.

Bones stuck out of the arms and legs at all manner of angles. The neck had been slashed and the knees were ripped and scratched.

The body smelled like the bacon Dean had for breakfast, and he could feel it trying to reacquaint itself with the world. Awesome. Absolutely awesome.

"She exploded?" Sam asked.

"Looks that way," the coroner said, "however, no signs of an outside force. It's as though she..."

"Burned from the inside," Sam interrupted.

She nodded. "Definite signs of internal scorching, and drowning, and burst ear drums, and histoplasmosis."

"From being in a cave?"

"You know your pulmonary diseases. Difficult to tell from the X-ray, but the lesion on the lip is unmistakable."

Sam's shoulders drooped. What was he worried about? Sure, this mystery was five kinds of crazy, but which of their cases were not? Sam stared at the body and kept staring.

"Thank you Doctor," Dean said, breaking the silence. He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him in the direction of the door. Best to get out before Sam blew their cover.

"Let me know if you need anything else, agent," the doctor said.

Dean pinched Sam's arm.

"Yes, doctor," Sam said. "You'll be the first person I call."

#

Dean loosened his tie and pressed harder on the gas. The Impala growled as it sped up; rumbling and vibrating him into a semblance of peace. Dad was gone, Sam was grumpier than ever, but Baby never let him down. The suburban chic of Defiance, Ohio, rumbled past. In Dean's mind the car never moved; it was the world which wandered past. In here, he was safe; in here had been home for a long time. Before Sam ruined everything by running away. Defiance was no different from any other town in which Dean had not grown up. Home was anywhere Dad and Sam were. Home was nowhere he would visit soon. Dad was gone: either hiding or lost or worse. Sam was almost as far away.

Dean wanted a beer, to be out of his suit, and to know what the hell was wrong with Sam this time.

"Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?" Dean asked, not expecting an answer.

Sam stared out of the window. Dean elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hey," Sam said, "what was that for?"

"Wanna tell me what's going on?"

"What? Nothing's going on."

"Really."

"Just thinking about the job."

"Then why is your face all screwed up like that?"

"Headache."

"Yeah, right." Dean was not getting anything out of Sam this time. He turned the radio up until Black Sabbath screamed out of the speakers, and increased the Impala's speed again. If Sam wanted a headache, Dean would ensure he got what he desired.

#

By the time Dean was halfway into their room at the Fallen Timbers motel, his tie was off and most of his shirt buttons were undone. He threw his FBI badge into his duffle bag and sat on the edge of the bed. The decor was somewhere between Native American and spandex, and that somewhere was alarming. No wonder Sam had a headache; assuming his protestations were anything other than his usual excuses.

"Don't get comfortable," Sam said. "Did you notice the words on the inner arms and thighs?" He pulled his laptop out of his bag, placed it on the room's single table and switched it on. He didn't even change out of his suit. "Dean, c'mon we've got work to do."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"We've been to the morgue, been to the crime scene. She won't be any deader in the morning."

"You're the one who wanted to work jobs. You're the one who didn't wanna go after Dad. If you don't want to do either, what do you want? Cos I'm sick of trying to work you out."

Anger always loosened Sam up. Dean stood up and walked right up to Sam, allowing his brother the benefit of his extra few inches of height. Sam was always easier to manipulate when he thought he had the upper hand. This was going to be easier than salting and burning some bones under a full moon.

"Why don't you just come out and say what you mean, Sammy?"

Sam took one step forward: Dean stood his ground. "It's Sam."

Dean smirked. This was gonna be easy. "What's your problem, Sammy?"

"You, apparently. This job is important to me, why isn't it to you?"

"Just because I don't bring it home with me, doesn't mean I'm not interested. Why is it so important to you?"

Sam looked down and backed away. "Just is."

"Just is? That's the answer of a ten year old."

Sam rubbed his forehead and sat down at the table. "Please Dean. I do things for you without asking."

"Since when?"

"What about Jericho? I came with you to Jericho. You're my big brother; I'd do anything for you."

Good tactic, well played. Guess that moon was a blue one after all.

Sam continued. "Seen anything like that before?"

"Burned from the inside, exploded limbs, drowned, and covered in cuts?"

"Abrasions."

"Huh?"

"Abrasions. Superficial damage to the skin."

"Thank you, college boy." He thought for a moment. "I got nothing. Do we have to do research now?"

"I'll do it," Sam said, without taking his eyes from the screen. "You go get us something to eat."

Dean studied his brother for a moment. What was going on in that over-sized head? "Ok. But when we're done with this job, we're going to have a very long talk."

#

Dean walked into the motel room. He carried a bag of Chinese food, half-expecting to see Sam in the middle of frenzied research. Instead he was lying on his bed holding a bag of ice against his forehead.

"Sammy!" Dean said. He dumped the food on the table and went to his brother's side.

"I'm okay," Sam said. Ice water dripped down his temples and into his hair.

"You don't look OK. Seriously, we should get you checked out. You're having way too many of these headaches."

"Are you my nurse now?"

"Wouldn't be the first time, Sammy." The kid wouldn't believe half the things Dean had sacrificed for him. Isn't this what happened to their victim? Didn't she explode?

"We need to look for caves beneath the ruins of Fort Defiant."

"You need some rest, before that strange-shaped head of yours explodes."

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam got up and went back to the table. Sitting before the laptop, he beckoned Dean over. There was going to be no peace this day.

"Do you remember the words inscribed on the legs and arms?"

"No." Dean wandered over to his brother and stood behind him so he could see the laptop screen. "What words?"

"So, I noticed the word Amoun on the limbs. A couple of tattoos repeated, plus something that could have been etched or gouged into the skin. Difficult to see beneath all the abrasions."

"Oh, the abrasions. Let's not forget them. How did you notice that?"

Sam shrugged.

"Spells a word, actually a name."

"Aaron? Could be a boyfriend."

"Not Aaron. Amoun."

"That's supposed to mean something?"

"To a student of ancient Egyptian mysteries, yes it does. Variant spelling of Amun. Also, Amon and Amen."

"Well, that clears that right up." Dean moved around the table and sat down opposite his brother. Taking the Chinese food out of the paper bag, he opened a carton of chow mein and began to eat. He tried to savour the taste, but Sam was staring at him. "I'm listening."

"Amun. Primeval Egyptian personification of air and breath. Worshipped at Thebes, Karnak and throughout Africa, Europe. Pretty much everywhere."

"Including Defiance, Ohio?"

Sam laughed. "That may be the problem."

"How so?" Dean took another bite. Definitely not as tasty as the food in the last town.

"When combined with the sun-god Ra, he became Amun-Ra, the creator deity."

"So this Gregor chick's a witch? Do you think she did that naked dancing in the woods?" He grinned at his brother.

Sam ignored him. "More like ceremonial magic." He rubbed his forehead.

"Sounds slightly less exciting."

"Yeah, probably more like Freemasonry. Or to be exact, an eighteenth century German version."

"Eighteenth century?"

"Yeah, dates back to the 1720s."

"Freemasons? Aren't they the ones with the funny handshakes?"

"More like a group of men who are the power behind all thrones." He looked up from his computer. His eyes shone as he honed in on the solution. This was the true Sam, lost in the chase. How had he ever been happy in college? The headaches were something new: something more than anger or frustration or common pain. Something they would solve together whether Sam liked it or not.

"A tattoo though?" Dean said. "Bit of a stretch don't you think?"

"Not necessarily. Lots of people tattoo names on themselves: friends, lovers, relatives. Why not your god?"

"Ok. So what now? Look for an angry god? I think I may have seen one at the diner last night."

"Dean..."

"Don't Dean me."

Dean stared at his brother until Sam looked away.

"Dean, put your suit back on, we need to go see the body again."

#

The coroner's office was swarming with local police. A dozen cars were parked in front of the building with the cops clustered in small groups. They talked quietly, failing to keep the fear from their faces. Amateurs. Dean stopped the car a little way down the street.

"Looks a little hot," Dean said, "maybe we should let this one go."

"What's wrong with you?" Sam said. He got out of the car and walked up to the building. He was going to get them arrested or killed or both.

By the time Dean caught up with Sam, his brother was through the yellow crime scene tape and into the building. There were no cops in the reception area, but there were a lot of snakes. Cobras, rattlesnakes, pythons. All manner of snakes and lying in the centre of the room was the receptionist. Dead. Constricted, bitten, and poisoned: one particularly large boa was trying to swallow her foot. The coroner watched from the entrance to the morgue corridor. She beckoned to Sam, before disappearing back down the corridor.

"What the?" Dean said. Sam didn't even look surprised. It was if he'd seen this before. Somewhere.

Dean followed his brother down the corridor.

"Doctor Hendry," Sam said.

"Agent Bloom," she replied, extending her hand. Sam took it and held it for a fraction longer than he should. Was there nothing Dean hadn't taught him?

"Snakes?" Sam asked.

"Snakes," Doctor Hendry said. "The weird thing is that they refuse to leave reception. We already have two bitten security guards and a cop attacked by a boa."

"Did you try leaving the doors open?" Dean asked.

"Wow, no-one thought of that," the doctor looked at Sam. "Is he always this smart?"

Sam shook his head. "Actually, this is a pretty good day for him." Dean stamped on his foot. "Almost as though there is an invisible forcefield around the body, keeping the snakes close? Biting anyone who tries to disturb her or remove the body."

"Can't do anything until animal control arrives. So, Agent, what brings you back?"

"I think I may have missed something on the Gregor body; we'd like to take another look please."

"That body was shipped to the crematorium a few hours ago."

"Isn't that quick for an unexplained death?"

"Unexplained?"

"Internal explosions, drowning, burst ear drums? I'd like to see the official report."

""And I'd like to speak to your supervisory agent."

Sam put a hand on the doctor's shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'm not questioning your professionalism. My partner doesn't get out much, and likes to read rather than talk, don't you Agent Roesen?"

Dean nodded.

"The Chief of Police took the report not half an hour ago."

"Okay, thanks. Do you have a number I can reach you on?" Sam flashed his best smile. "In case I have any further questions."

The coroner took a business card from the nearby desk and gave it to Sam. He held it in both hands, glancing down at the details. "Thank you, Jocelyn."

#

"Did you see that, Dean?" Sam asked.

Sam was almost running as they went back to the Impala. Its bodywork glistened in the sun. Beautiful.

"A cute receptionist killed by snakes? Kinda hard to miss."

Dean put one hand on the door handle and looked across the car roof to his brother.

"Ready to tell me what's going on yet?"

"Maybe." Sam got in the car.

Dean pulled the door open. The hinges creaked just the way he liked it.

"You're not gonna tell me?"

"Just drive, Dean. We need to go to Fort Defiance."

Dean watched as his brother got into the car and slammed the door shut behind him. This was the last time he would let it go.

#

Fort Defiance did not live up to its name. Instead of a sturdy fort designed to protect settlers from the local Native American tribe, the brothers were treated to a large grassed park with a few lumps of stone sticking out of the ground.

"This is it?" Dean asked.

"Apparently so," Sam replied.

Sam and Dean walked across to the centre of the park. Children played football, families picnicked. It could not have been any more clichéd. Sweat dribbled down Dean's face. Should have left Dad's coat in the car, but he preferred not to leave Dad's anything anywhere.

"There's nothing here." Dean said.

"There has to be. There," Sam said, pointing at some railings at the park's edge.

Sam jogged to the tree line and made a path through the thick vegetation. Dean looked around. Everyone was too busy living to notice two young men clambering about in the woods. Maybe that was this town's problem.

"Help me with this," Sam said.

Dean followed him. Sam was tearing vines and ivy from a gate.

"Doesn't look like anyone's come this way for months, maybe years."

"Dean, in all the cases we've ever had, have you not noticed that all the bad guys have a back entrance to their secret lair?"

Dean shrugged and began to tug at the plants. Thorns tore at his hands, ripping the callused flesh. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his leather jacket, his father's jacket, and pulled out a knife. That made things easier. Finally, they pulled aside enough vegetation to reveal a plain wooden door. A sturdy, oak door. Something was missing.

"Dude," Sam said, "where's the handle?"

Dean shrugged and ran his fingers around the edges of the doorframe. Neither a hidden latch nor a loose candlestick to be found. "Maybe it only opens from the inside."

"No," Sam shouted. "This has to be the way in. We have to get inside. We have to get inside now."

Dean placed one hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam shrugged him off. "Why the hurry?"

"People are dying, Dean."

"Yeah, and so might we if we rush in before we know what we're rushing into."

"Dean."

"Sam, I know you're concerned, but I haven't seen you like this since..." Dean remembered. "Since we went home. Since that dream you had. The one that sent us back to Kansas. What aren't you telling me?"

"It was just a dream, Dean. Probably nothing."

"So, why has this nothing got us beating on a door in broad daylight?"

"The dream was about you."

"Me?"

"You were in a cave, held captive by two men dressed as Egyptian priests."

"Okay."

"They cut out your tongue and shaved your hair."

"Oh, some sort of jealousy dream?"

"What?"

"Where you scar your handsome brother to have a chance with the ladies?"

"What? No. They killed you."

"Why should it mean anything? I dream about you dying all the time. Hell, sometimes I'm the one with the axe."

"Dean, it isn't funny. It's like that dream I had about the house. I was right about that, and I'm right about this. We have to solve this, or you'll die." Sam's voice dropped until it was barely audible. "I can't lose you too."

What the hell was going on? Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder. "We'll figure it out, Sam. Nothing's happening to me. You know how I know that?"

"How?"

"Because I've got my little brother watching my back."

#

Dean carried two cups of coffee to the table at which Sam sat. He put one down on the table and sat in the empty chair. Sam was writing notes on a large notepad and scribbling strange designs, some of which could have been Egyptian hieroglyphics surrounded by German words. He picked up the cup and drank half of the contents in one gulp. The movement didn't even slow him down.

"Sam," Dean said.

"Yeah," Sam replied.

"Wanna tell me what you're doing?"

"Got it!" Sam said, almost knocking over his cup in excitement. "It's all about the Crata Repoa - the ceremonial magic initiation rite I told you about."

Dean pulled what he hoped was a confused face.

"The first victim..."

"Amanda Gregor, right? Thirty-two years old, single, no criminal record."

Sam glanced up from his notes.

"You think you're the only one who pays attention?"

"It was the internal burns and explosion that didn't make sense, but after reading this." Sam dropped his notes on the table in front of Dean.

Dean read aloud. "There was a terrible wind and rain upon the initiate, plus lightening in the face, and dreadful thunderclaps. Upon submission the initiate was made to kneel with bare knees and made to swear an oath with the point of a sword to his throat." Was Sam losing his mind? "You speak German?"

"Only with the aid of a dictionary and lots of time. Jessica wasn't the only girl I dated in college."

"So, you've been holding out on your big brother."

"Dean."

"Okay, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Being burned from the inside, exploding flesh: both symptoms of lightning strikes. Then there's the abrasions from what could have been a sandstorm. Terrible rain explains the drowning. Cut knees, slit throat. Burst eardrums from the thunder. It all fits."

"She was killed by a thunderstorm? How can rain drown someone?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"Someone replicated the ceremony?"

Sam nodded.

"But what about the second body, the receptionist with the over-friendly snakes?"

"If the first degree of initiation is nature's fury, guess what the second is?"

"You're kidding? Snakes?"

Sam nodded. "Snakes. It gets worse."

"Leprechauns?"

"Dean."

"Don't tell me: there's more than two degrees?"

Sam nodded. "Seven. The third is the Door of Death. Initiate is hit gently on the forehead with a sacrificial axe, thrown on the floor, wound up in mummification bandages, and taken by Charon to the underworld."

"How do you hit someone gently with an axe?"

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Be careful, I guess.

"Sounds like a complicated way to kill someone. You think this is a human?"

"Could be."

"Great. Give me demons, poltergeists and vengeful spirits, but people. People are just crazy."

"Could be a demon or someone worshipping one."

"What makes you say that?"

"This text dates back to 1785. Fort Defiance was built upon the orders of General Mad Anthony Wayne in 1794 as the last line of defence during the Indian wars."

"So, coincidences happen, Sam."

"Turns out a contemporary militiaman declared, 'I defy the English, Indians, and all of the devils of hell to take it'. Could be something."

"Could be a crazy soldier in the middle of a war. Does it say anything else? Any clues where this Door of Death is?"

"No, just talks about embalmed bodies, coffins, and the place to which corpses are delivered. I'll just look up this word, must be ancient Egyptian." Sam typed something into his laptop. A few seconds later the colour drained from his face.

"What is it?"

"This word, Paraskistes, it means he who cuts corpses open." He took the coroner's card out of his pocket and tapped the number into his phone.

#

"Hurry up, Dean," Sam said.

"Shush," Dean said. He knelt before the rear entrance to the morgue as he tried to pick the lock. The little bugger was tough and Sam breathing down his neck wasn't helping him feel the movement of the pins. He applied too much torque and the pick snapped in the lock. "Damnit."

"Let me try," Sam said, pushing Dean out of the way.

"Hey!"

Sam got a new pick and knelt down. In a matter of seconds the wrench turned and the lock opened. He put his picks away and pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans. He looked around at Dean who nodded. As Sam entered the building, Dean grabbed his own gun; it was cool and heavy in his hand. Dean tightened his hold on the grip and followed his brother inside.

The building held a stench worse than any morgue Dean had been in. It was more like a ten-week old freshly dug corpse. Sam moved quickly through the building: too quickly. If he were any less careless, Sam risked triggering an alarm. When were these dreams going to stop? It only took one with the semblance of believability to set him on a reckless road to ruin.

Dean quickened his pace, torn between due caution and supporting his brother. They reached the double-swing doors into the morgue. Sam placed one hand against the left door. Dean nodded, raising his gun to cover the entry. Sam pushed the door open. Silence. The brothers entered the room. It was clean, clear, and empty. Sam wandered around the room, poking at equipment with his gun.

"There's nothing here, Sam," Dean said, "let's go."

Sam turned to look at him. A shadow of fear flickered across his face.

"What?"

Sam rushed past Dean and pushed aside a screen which was covering a large portion of the wall. A huge photograph, perhaps six foot by six was pinned to the wall. It was a picture of the coroner bound up like a mummy in bloodstained bandages. A blade of a large axe was buried in her forehead, the handle standing to attention. Scrawled across the bandages was the phrase "Never thirst for blood".

"Like I said," Dean said, "people are crazy." He tugged on Sam's sleeve. "Let's get out of here before security catches us."

Sam nodded and followed his brother out of the building.

#

"Maybe we should skip to victim number five, get a head start on this maniac," Dean suggested. He picked up his cup, but all that remained were the dregs of Sam's latest attempt at a decent beverage. He got out of the Impala and stretched in the moonlight. The sky was clear and the stars painted close designs in the heavens.

Sam climbed out of the car. He tucked a large map under one arm and studied a sheaf of papers. "We still don't know where the demon or creature or human or whatever is," Sam said.

"Maybe there are some caves around Fort Defiance. Something we missed."

"We searched all night, Dean. There's nothing there."

"You're sure it's caves. Underground caves."

"Yes," Sam studied the translation. "After the third degree the initiate is condemned to live in the underworld." Sam looked at the map that covered the table. "No caves anywhere near the fort."

"Give that here," Dean said, turning the map around and laying it out on the Impala's hood. "Lots of government buildings nearby."

"What about sewers?" Sam asked. "They're underground tunnels."

"Sure," Dean replied, "ancient Egyptians magicians living in filth and squalor."

"They lived amongst the dead."

"Even I know things were a little bit different in those days." What was that squiggle on the map? "Sam, look at this. Is that an underground tunnel?"

Beneath the roads, sewers and buildings were some indistinguishable lines. "Tunnels? Really? Why can't we have one fight in a penthouse suite? Black marble tiles with double-height ceilings." Dean noticed the expression on Sam's face and stopped talking. Sam's face was contorted into a realm somewhere between confusion and contempt. "Maybe they date back to the old days when the fort wasn't a park."

"Maybe."

"Worth a look?"

Sam nodded. Dean slapped him on the shoulder. "See, what would you do without me?"

"Well, I wouldn't be nagged half so much."

"So, what do we kill this thing with? Salt, silver, iron?"

"If it's a human, I guess that's easy. If it's a demon, maybe not so much."

"You pack the holy water; I'll bring a big gun."

#

Dean eased off of the gas as he steered the Impala past the library entrance. The building was in darkness except for a few security lights which were easily avoidable. The building was huge and imposing, built of a dark red brick and in good condition. Not your usual lair. Dean pulled around the back of the building and stopped the car so it was out of sight of the road.

"You sure this is the tunnel entrance?" Dean asked. He opened the Impala's trunk, propped up the false bottom with a swan-off shotgun and rummaged about inside.

Sam stood close to his brother, scanning the dark alley behind Defiance's library. The moon was absent leaving the brothers in almost total darkness. Even the river flowed past in silence. Dean picked up a small torch and held it out to Sam, who took it. The pair moved quickly to stock themselves with their standard guns, holy water, silver knives and anything else that could possibly be of use.

"We're not counting on ghosts?" Dean asked.

"Don't think so," Sam said.

Dean put the sawn-off back in the trunk, closing the lid as quietly as he could. He straightened up. Sam was staring at him, a strange expression on his face. Was that concern? Was little Sammy worried about him? "What?"

"Nothing."

"That's not your nothing face, Sam."

"I dreamt you died in a tunnel in Defiance, and here I am leading you right into that danger."

"No, you're not," Dean said. He walked past Sam toward the tunnel entrance. "I'm the oldest. I go first." At least this way Sam would not see the worried expression on his face.

Dean reached the back entrance to the library first and picked the lock. At least this place didn't have an alarm. The brothers moved quickly and quietly through the ground floor of the library, looking for a way into the basement. Lots of corridors and lots of books, college-boy would be right at home, but where was that basement access? Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder, and then pointed to a door to the rear of the staircase. It was labelled "No entry." Must be the place.

Sam moved to the door and laid his hand upon the doorknob. Dean raised his gun and nodded. Sam turned the knob and pushed open the door.

Wooden stairs led down into darkness. Sam stepped across the threshold, turned on his torch and walked down the stairs. Dean followed close behind, making sure he closed the door behind him. If something, or worse someone, tried to follow them, he wanted to be the first to know. Dean listened for a monster: the flickering electricity of a ghost, the snarl of a werewolf, the arrogance of the vampire. The only sounds were their footsteps and his breathing. If he listened very hard, he could hear Sam breathing slightly faster than usual. But he did not need to hear Sam to know where he was. Hours, weeks, months of hunting together and he know exactly how Sam would react to danger, his attack and defensive preferences. What Dad had failed to teach Sam, Dean had done himself. So, why was he so worried?

Sam stopped moving. Dean hesitated. Both men stood silent. What had Sam heard? Was that shuffling noise behind them a pair of boots marching a pattern upon the concrete floor? Another pair moved off to the right. Damn people. Monsters tended not to wear boots, although monsters possessing people might. So, either human or demon. Their guns might help against humans, but, if demons, there were too many to exorcise at once. The demon on the plane had taken both of their attention for several minutes.

Perhaps Sam was right; perhaps he had led Dean to his death.

The footsteps began to circle them, at first two pairs of feet, then several, then too many to distinguish one from the other.

Dean held his breath

A hand grasped his arm. Dean yelped a little too loudly and shook the hand off. Sam stepped closer and the brothers stood back to back, guns held out in front of them. There was not even anything to aim at.

"Dean," Sam said. There was that fear again, this time betrayed by the most subtle of shakes in Sam's voice.

"I know," Dean said.

The footsteps moved closer, circling them as a wolf pack might circle its prey. Many voices chanted in unison. Was that a name?

"Panis! Vedic! Panis! Vedic!" the men chanted.

Dean began to fire random shots into the darkness. No sound except for the loudness of his gun. Not even a scream or yelp from their attackers. Sam's back was warm against his, his brother's shoulders moving as he tried to find something to aim at. A noise to his right. Close by. Dean fired twice. Stupid. Never fire without a target, how often had Dad told him that? They couldn't go out like this: he was supposed to protect Sam. That was the only thing that mattered.

Something hit him on the side of the face. Something else hit him harder. The basement flashed bright, and then faded as Dean fell to his knees.

"Dean!" Sam said.

Something threw a noose over his head. The heavy rope tightened around his neck and the world slipped into darkness.

#

Someone was shaking Dean. It was dark. Still dark. Someone called his name, quietly as though from a long way away. Another world or another life. Hands grabbed at his jacket and shook harder.

"Dean," a voice said, "wake up."

Dean struggled, trying to fend off his attacker, trying to escape.

The hands pulled him into a seated position. Someone was crouching next to him, pulling him close, and wrapping long arms around him. His head fell against someone's chest. He knew that breathing, had spent hours lying awake at night listening to that breathing. But why was Sam hugging him when they should both be dead?

"Dark," Dean said.

"Try opening your eyes," Sam said.

Dean did try, but closed them swiftly. "Bright." Too bright out there. Maybe he would stay inside. Just for one moment, he wanted to be safe. He wanted to be doted on like Dad had doted on Sam. He wanted to be loved.

"Dean, wake up!"

"What if I don't want to?"

Sam's breathing eased a little. He manoeuvred Dean until he was propped against a wall. Gently, he turned Dean's head and tried to move his hair away from his wound. Dean flailed at him with one hand.

"Let me check it," Sam said.

"Leave it. I'm okay."

"No, you're not." Sam tightened his grip and inspected Dean's head. "The cut looks superficial. Would've thought your head was dense enough to take more of a blow than this."

"Get off me," Dean said, swatting Sam's arms away. He looked around the room, automatically checking for doors, windows, locks, loose floorboards; an exit of any kind. Everything was blurred, and there might have been two Sams fussing over him. "What happened?"

"Someone knocked you out, captured me and dragged us both into this cell."

"You let yourself get captured? Sloppy, Sam, sloppy."

"They were going to kill you. There were a lot of them. Too many to take them all, or even half of them, by myself. What were you doing letting yourself get knocked out so easily? How did you manage before Jericho?"

Sam may have been half-joking, but he was right. Sam could have been killed. Difficult to protect your brother when you're lying unconscious on the floor.

"What exactly are they?"

"Looked like people. Scary people in silly costumes with big swords, but still people."

"What do they want?"

Sam shrugged and sat next to Dean. He leaned against the wall, pulled his legs up and rested his forearms upon his knees. "You sure you're ok?"

"Sam, I'm fine. Gonna take more than a bump on the head to stop me. You know that."

"Yeah, appears that two bumps is about right."

"Hey, they caught me off guard. It was dark."

Sam laughed. He didn't do that enough.

#

The room was bare with metal walls fashioned from thick rusting iron. Old. Even the floor was metal; huge sheets riveted together. One plastic-covered electric bulb pushed out feeble yellow light from its position above the door.

"There must be a way out of here," Sam said. He stood up and began to walk around the edges of the room, testing the riveted sheets for loose sections. He was right, there was always a way out of any situation.

Dad would have known what to do.

From behind the door came shuffling sounds, footsteps, and whispering voices. The doorknob rattled, turned, and the door opened. Four men entered the room: two with handguns and two with automatic weapons. Dressed in jeans, casual shirts and boots, they looked like a thousand other men living in America might. Sam and Dean would have fitted right in.

One man stepped into the middle of the room. "Sam and Dean Winchester," he said. "I hear you are worthy adversaries."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. How did this man know who they were?

Sam stood up.

"Never heard of them," Dean said. How much was he slurring his words?

The man trained his gun on Dean's forehead. Sam moved across the room and stopped so he could stand between their captor and Dean. The other three men readjusted their aim and advanced. Sam stood his ground. Weaponless, with no obvious way out, yet he held fast. Despite his bravado, they both knew Dean was not up to a fight. Hell, he felt dizzy sitting down. The spinning of the room was slowing, but he felt a little safer knowing at least two incarnations of Sam swayed in front of him.

"Well trained," the leader said, "there may be some hope for you yet."

The man moved to one side and pointed his gun at Dean once more. Sam adjusted his stance, but another captor grabbed his collar and put the muzzle of his gun against his head.

The first man crouched down next to Dean. He smelled like honey and iron. Sweetness and blood. Was that oil on his two foreheads? Was the room ever going to stop spinning? Dean concentrated on remaining strong and on not letting his brother down. He was going to get Sam out of this even if it was the last thing he did. One of these days it would be.

"I'm Cyce," the man said, "and I'm..."

"Nutty?"

The man slapped Dean across the face. Sam tried to move forward, but two men grabbed his arms and held him back. Only there were three versions of Sam and six men holding him: holding the two hims.

"I'm a representative of a deity; some might say a demonic deity who would very much like to make your acquaintance."

"Okay," Dean mumbled. "Awkward."

"What does this demon want with us?" Sam asked.

Ten-to-one Sam would think this was his demon, that this was the one who killed mom.

Cyce stood up and moved closer to Sam. He punched him in the face. Sam managed not to whimper or cry out. Blood poured from his nose, flowing into his mouth and dripping down the front of his shirt. Good boy. They may have been apart for years whilst Sam play-acted at being normal, but he had not lost his edge.

"Drink this," Cyce said, holding a tarnished copper mug out to Dean.

Dean laughed. "Really? You think I'm gonna let you poison me?"

Cyce nodded. "Well, when you say 'let', I mean force. It will be easier if you go along with our needs, otherwise your brother may find himself in need of legs."

Cyce held the mug out again. Dean swatted it away. It flew out of Cyce's hand and hit the wall. A sweet smelling sticky liquid slid and oozed down the metal.

Cyce nodded. One of the men holding Sam swept his legs out from under him. Sam crashed face first onto the floor. The man put his foot in the centre of Sam's back and shifted his body weight. Sam grunted.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam mumbled into the metal floor.

"No," Dean said. "Ok, just don't hurt him."

"Dean, no!" Sam said. "What if it's poison?"

"Sorry, little brother." He looked in Cyce's general direction. It was hard to tell his exact location, being as there were two of him.

"Give me another mug." Dean held out his hand.

"Lick it off the wall," Cyce said.

"What?"

"Your tongue. Wall. Now."

Sam screamed as the man standing on his back shifted his weight. The things he did for that boy. Dean crawled across the floor, the room shifting around him as he struggled to remain conscious. He slumped against the wall and began to lick at the sticky fluid. Bitter. Like nettles boiled in old socks. But you can't escape if you don't survive.

"All of it," Cyce said. "To the dregs."

Dean licked the wall. The tang and the bitterness made him gag. But he couldn't stop, he wouldn't stop. He owed Sam. He would always owe Sam. He couldn't protect his brother from the nightmares, but they were in his world now.

"What do you want with us?" Sam asked.

"Not you," Cyce said, "your big brother. He's the only one worthy, but I guess today my masters will benefit from the glory of two warriors fighting for their lives." He turned to address Dean. "Don't worry; it is, theoretically, possible to survive. The problem is that no one ever has."

"Yet," Dean said. He owed him a punch in the nose.

"Such spirit will power our dreams for many years," Cyce said. "Little brother here will have to give you a hand, Dean. I'm afraid there isn't time to wait for you to recover either your senses or single vision. Moon cycles are a bitch, yes?" He walked out of the room. "Give them some weapons."

The men let go of Sam and backed slowly out of the room, throwing in two swords and two shields before slamming the door shut and bolting it from the outside.

Dean tried to get up and check Sam's injury, but his legs wobbled and he was not even using them. "I don't suppose you learnt how to sword-fight at that fancy college of yours?"

#

It was gonna be hard to fight when the world refused to keep still. How was he supposed to win with an unfamiliar weapon in a burrow of tunnels so complex even the inhabitants probably got lost? Maybe if he closed his eyes for a moment, things would be easier. Quieter would be nice. Dean laid his head back against the wall. It was nice behind his eyelids; there was only one set of darkness. And it didn't come with swords, shields, or demon-worshipping maniacs. Also, there was no pesky little brother to look out for.

It was probably that pesky brother who was shaking him awake.

"Dean," Sam said, "wake up."

"No."

"Dean," Sam said, shaking him again. "You've been asleep for a couple of hours. I need to check you're okay."

"I'm fine," Dean mumbled. His head felt like someone had punched him; twice.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam waved his hand in front of Dean's face. Feeling the movement, Dean grabbed it to still the motion and tone down the nausea. "I'm fine, Sam." He opened his eyes and blinked as Sam's face began to unblur. The walls were still riveted metal illuminated only by a dim, amber light. "No chance this is a dream and I'm lying in a seedy motel room with a hot chick."

"Afraid not. It's my dreams that got us here."

"Of course, I forgot, only your dreams are important."

"I see you are feeling better," Sam said. He picked up a sword and studied the blade. "See these etchings," he said, holding the sword up so Dean could see it, "Egyptian hieroglyphics".

Noises came from the corridor outside the door. Clangs, bangs, and what sounded like chanting. Both brothers studied the door. The handle turned. The door opened. The footsteps receded.

"Could be some kind of bizarre rescue attempt?" Dean said.

"Yeah," Sam said, "maybe Dad's come to rescue us."

"Don't talk about him like that!"

"Why don't you come over here and stop me? He left us. Deserted you. He deserted me years ago. Maybe it's his fault Jessica died. If he hadn't stayed lost."

Dean struggled to his feet and walked a little unsteadily across the room. Now, if Sam would simply stop moving around, maybe he could land a decent punch. Instead, he settled for stumbling and putting his hand out to steady himself against Sam's shoulder. "I owe you one punch."

"Got you on your feet though," Sam grinned.

"I owe you two."

Dean leaned on his brother; Sam let him. "They expect us to fight our way out?"

"Looks that way."

"With swords?" Dean pushed himself away from his brother until he was swaying only slightly. Sam held onto his arm. Dean pushed him away. "Get off me!"

"Definitely feeling better."

"I'm not playing anymore of their games."

"I don't want to either, but we may not have a choice."

"Giving in easy, Sammy. What makes you say that?"

Sam pointed over Dean's shoulder. Smoke was drifting through vents high up in the room. The brothers looked at each other, at the smoke, then at the open door. Was there no cliché these guys wouldn't use? They really did need to get out more. Sam thrust a sword and shield into Dean's hands, then picked up the other sword and hoisted the shield onto his shoulder.

"I always thought I'd go out in a hail of bullets," Dean said, "or maybe ectoplasm."

"Remember, Dean, parry close and try not to rush in and impale yourself. It's not a gun."

Dean nodded. There was only so much fencing a man with a concussion could learn in thirty seconds.

"This time I'm gonna go first," Sam said.

"Didn't you say once initiates passed the third degree they are forbidden from leaving the underworld?"

"Yeah, forbidden by their god. You remembered that?"

"It may look as though I ignore everything you say, but sometimes I am actually listening. One of my many skills."

Sam held his shield in front of him, raised his sword and walked out of the door. Dean followed close behind. He might not be very stable, but he could stumble along behind. Provided there was no requirement for real fighting or running everything would be fine. In fact, fleeing was about the only thing he was capable of.

The brothers walked down the tunnel. The illumination was dim to the point of almost nothingness.

They crossed an intersection. At the far end of the cross-tunnels stood men with flaming torches, swords drawn. They started to walk toward them. Slowly. The brothers kept walking. There was an intersection with cross-tunnels every fifteen feet. Within a short distance, several men were following them down the tunnel. What was worse was they showed no sign of attack.

Sam picked up the pace, not even glancing behind him, but no doubt as aware of Dean's location as he had ever been. Growing up off the grid had been tough on Dean, raising his younger brother even harder, but nothing compared to being deserted by everyone who professed to love him. Nothing compared to Sam abandoning him for the danger of normality. Here, in the dark, with Sam fighting by his side, Dean was more alive than he had ever been.

The soldiers rushed them. Dean spun around and slashed widely in the dark. His sword hit something firm and wet. Fluid splattered across his face. The scent of copper. Blood. There was a dull, rather squelchy thud, then several smaller as something bounced along the tunnel. Then a larger thud as something crumpled to the ground. He knew that sound. He knew the sound of a dead body falling to the ground in the dark. He knew the sound of a fresh kill. The smaller object rolled to a stop against his foot.

"Sam."

"Yeah."

Dean kicked the head away, but the hair tangled around his foot. He skidded on the blood. The soldiers moved in, their torches illuminating the woman Dean had decapitated. In the flickering light, it looked like her hair was moving. One of the soldiers grabbed the head and stuffed it into a bag. The men advanced on Sam and Dean, prodding and shoving them down the narrow corridor. They emerged into a chamber decorated with scenes of beautiful beaches and forest scenes. The night-sky scenes reminded Dean of the old days when he and Sam used to sit on the Impala's hood with their dad and watch the stars. A time Sam had destroyed.

#

At the far end of the room, Cyce was sitting on a golden throne. He was dressed in the simple white clothes of an ancient Egyptian. "Dean, do come in"

The man carrying the bag went up to Cyce and laid it at his feet.

"I knew you could do it," Cyce said. "Knew you were the one. You decapitated her without even a thought."

Cyce grabbed the bag and pulled the woman's head from inside. The hair moved. Dean's captor pushed him further forward. Snakes. The woman's hair was made of snakes. Live snakes. Fastened onto her scalp with clips attached to their tails.

"Who was she?" Dean asked.

"No one important," Cyce replied.

"All humans are important," Sam said.

"Cute, isn't he?" Cyce said. "Her sacrifice was necessary."

"Necessary for what?" Sam asked.

Cyce nodded. One of the soldiers punched Sam in the back of the head. Sam stumbled, but did not fall.

"Your input, Sam Winchester, is not required."

"Necessary for what?" Dean asked.

Cyce sat back on the throne. "If you are to meet Amoun, many things are necessary. One of those things is the death of the gorgon. Things you would term murder, but which we term ritual and requisite."

"She's not the gorgon, she's a woman with snakes stuck to her head."

"Nobody's perfect."

"Is that what I am?"

"You have the most important role of all, Dean. You are the initiate without whom the doors to the temple cannot be opened. Without the great Dean Winchester there will be no entry to the Houses of the Manes."

"Manes?"

"The souls of men," Sam said. "The souls of those who are neither bad nor good."

"Your brother does have some uses," Cyce said. "Do you see why it must be you, Dean? You who are both bad and good; both a murderer and a protector. There is none other who may wear the boots of Anubis."

"The boots of Anubis?" Dean asked. "She what I mean, Sam? Crazy."

"We don't have much time," Cyce said. "I had hoped to take you through all of the degrees, but time marches onward. Amoun waits. Bring him closer."

The tip of a sword in his back was all the persuasion Dean needed to step forward.

Cyce placed fetters around Dean's ankles and tied his hands tightly behind his back with rope. "Bring him to the gateway. Bring both of them."

#

Two men linked their arms through Deans' and half-dragged him from the chamber. More tunnels, darkness and flaming torches. After an age, Dean was led down four steps into a chamber. Everywhere the same gloom. Sam was left behind.

The ground was uneven. Dean tripped and almost fell only caught by the men leading and guarding him. He tripped again and stumbled to the ground. He came to rest staring directly into the dead eyes of a young man. He rolled over and came face to foot with rotting limbs. His eyes watered from the stench of rotting flesh. What could have been guts or phlegm oozed onto his face and into his mouth. Were those screams his?

Dean managed to get to his knees, but one of his captors pushed him back down. He landed heavily across the torso of another young man, who let out a grunt. He would know that grunt anywhere.

"Sammy?" Dean cried, trying to get up.

Sam groaned. His hands had been untied, but he had a large cut to the side of his head. His eyes were closed and his breath shallow.

The guards grabbed Dean under his arms and pulled him to his feet, then carried him through the debris of flesh until they reached the far side of the room.

"Sammy," Dean shouted, "Sam!"

The guards threw Dean onto the floor. A pair of feet stepped into view. The shoes were made roughly from strips of leather bound around the foot and ankle.

Cyce spoke slowly, "Traitors one. Traitors all."

Dean laid still. How was he gonna Houdini his way out of this one?

"You know all about traitors, don't you, Dean?"

"Traitors?"

"Your entire family. Traitors to the last. First, your mother left you. She burned rather than stay with you. Then your father sent you out of the house, obviously only to save Sam. Even the demon didn't want you, Dean, and you were the first-born. Don't you think that's strange?"

Dean shook his head. He had wondered about that every day for the past twenty years.

"It was all about Sam. Never about you. How many times have you wished your little brother dead for ruining everything? If not for him, your mother would not have died and you would have grown up with some semblance of self-respect. Don't you ever think about that?"

"Are we gonna get to the point or are you gonna talk me to death?"

Cyce crouched down, placed a hand beneath Dean's chin and lifted his head. "How long before you are the traitor, Dean? How long before you betray your little brother? How long before he has to pay for destroying your life?

"You're so wrong."

"Your dad couldn't manage more than a few years alone with you after Sam left. Do you think he would have stayed if you hadn't driven Sam away? Which came first, Dean? The betrayer or those whom he wronged?"

"It's not my fault," Dean lied.

"It never is, is it?"

"It's not my fault."

Cyce patted Dean on the head. "Someday you'll betray your brother, Dean. Someday soon."

"No. Never. Sam's my responsibility. I'd die for him."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. The ritual must be completed. After that, if you wish to die for little Sammy, then you'll be free to do so."

"Ritual?" Why did there always have to be a damn ritual?

"One time offer. Let me take care of little Sammy for you. Tell yourself you couldn't help him, that you were too late to save him. You don't even need to lift a finger. Just lie there and let me take care of your problem."

"Never." Dean staggered to his feet. "Let us go now, and I won't have to kill you."

Cyce punched Dean in the face. Dazed he fell backwards, landing heavily. Blood poured from his nose and down his throat: he'd be tasting copper for days.

"All you have to do is stay down, Dean, and I'll take care of everything. Think what you could accomplish if Sammy were gone."

Steadying himself against the wall, Dean got to his feet. Cyce punched him in the ribs. Something cracked and he collapsed gasping for air.

"Stay down, Dean!"

"No!" Dean shouted. Using his last remaining energy, he got to his feet. He swayed as he tried to regain his balance. Best not to move too far or too fast.

Cyce applauded. "You've done well, Dean. Protected your brother, as only you could. Is there anything you wouldn't do for that boy?" He clapped his hands and stepped away. "The ritual is almost complete. Isn't this fun? Soon shall we stand in the presence of our god, Amoun, and bask in his glory."

"Well, I am kinda awesome."

"That you are, Dean. We need to move you to the final chamber, to the Houses of the Dead. You spend a lot of time with the dead, so it shouldn't present you with too many problems." He slapped Dean on the back. A friendly tap like Dad gave Sam when he aced his first target practice. "Cut out his tongue. And someone go kill little Sammy."

#

"The portal will open soon," Cyce said. "You must be prepared for what you are to face. You may have no words with which to cast spells upon our god. And neither shall you have hair with which to fool our god nor else turn him to stone."

"You're five kinds of crazy," Dean said.

"Don't disappoint me, Dean; you are our last hope. None of the others passed the tests. All were traitors. All led others to their deaths. All neglected their morale laws and failed to prevent the deaths of those they professed to love. Tell me Dean, do you really love Sam, or has self-sacrifice become a habit?"

"Hurt Sam and I'll kill you."

"How exactly?" He hit Dean's head. "You're concussed." He hit Dean in the ribs, catching those he had cracked earlier. "Your ribs are cracked, and could easily be broken."

The guards picked Dean up and half-dragged, half-carried him to a large iron chair in the middle of the cave. The priests dumped Dean into the chair and bound him tightly with rope. The rope was damp with a bitter scent like the drink he had licked off of the wall. From the distance came a scream.

"Sam!" Dean struggled against his bonds, but the priests were strong and the iron stronger.

"Don't you hurt him. I'll kill every last one of you."

"Cut his hair first," Cyce said.

A priest brought a pair of shears whilst another held Dean's head tightly. The first hacked at his hair, cutting bits and pieces. The blades cut into his scalp, but he did not flinch. Dean Winchester never flinched. The priest looked at the shears, then licked Dean's blood off of the blade. This was the last time Dean was listening to one of Sam's mad ideas.

Another scream howled along the tunnel from the Chamber of Traitors.

"Sometimes they like to take their time. With Sam being so big they may actually manage one thousand cuts."

Calm. Dad would have told him to be calm and look for an exit strategy. Unfortunately, his contingency plan was lying amongst a pile of corpses being cut into shreds.

"That's close enough," Cyce said. "Now for the tongue." He turned to look at Dean. "Why so calm all of a sudden?"

"Told you, I'm gonna kill you all. Probably leave you to last. Got something extra special planned."

Cyce nodded to the man with the shears. "Do it."

The priest holding Dean's head tightened his grip and pulled his head back against the headrest, securing it firmly with a band of leather. He walked around to stand in front of the chair, prised Dean's mouth open and, using a pair of pincers, grabbed the tongue until it was extended beyond the edges of Dean's mouth.

Another scream in the tunnel. Damn it, Sam, was he gonna have to escape and save him? The priest holding the shears moved closer, bringing the twin blades up to Dean's mouth.

"Any last requests, Dean? They're your last words, better make them count?"

None of the witty remarks Dean had considered over the years came to mind. Dean had often wondered how he would die, at the hands of which monster, whether it would be his own fault or that of his brother. The brother who was sneaking through the gloom with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Sam's face and neck were streaked with blood. His clothes were torn and one of his shirtsleeves was missing. With their backs turned, none of the priests noticed him.

"We do not have all night, which words would you sacrifice to our god? Amoun is listening. He listens always to those who would die for his might."

It was hard to talk. "Hello, Sam."

Sam stepped up behind the priests, stabbing one with his sword and slicing another's throat. The first cried out; the second gurgled. Both fell to the floor as their blood drained into the dirt.

"Took you long enough," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. Cyce drew his sword and held it before him. "Priests! Guards! Protect your Hierophant!"

"Sorry, dude, too late."

Sam lunged at Cyce, who turned and fled down a tunnel.

"How do we get ourselves into these situations?" Sam asked. He untied Dean and picked the locks on the fetters.

"You're the one with the scarily realistic dreams."

"Go after him? He could be anywhere. This place is a maze." He noticed Dean's new haircut and smirked. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

"Shut up!" Dean said. "I know where he's going. Follow me."

Sam handed him a spare sword and grabbed a torch from the wall.

Dean led the way down the tunnel until they reached a small room with three tunnels branching off from it.

"Which way?"

Over one of the tunnels, a few words were engraved into the stone. It read 'Houses of the Dead'.

"This way." Dean started down the tunnel with Sam following close behind.

After a few minutes, they could see a dim orange glow around the corner. It flickered and shuffled as someone walked backwards and forward in front of it. Dean held his hand up in a closed fist. Sam's footsteps ceased, but his breathing was still laboured. Dean moved forward and looked around the corner. He could see only one person, the Hierophant, in the room. He was standing in front of a statue and mumbling something that might not have been in English.

"Dean, if he's trying to say an incantation," Sam said.

"I know." Pity he didn't have his gun or a hunting bow.

Dean settled for sneaking down the tunnel. As he emerged into the cave, Cyce got down on his knees, raised his hands in supplication and increased the intensity of his chant. Dean raised his sword, but Sam grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't just go around killing humans, Dean."

"What?"

"It's wrong."

"He would have killed us. Still might."

"Dean, no."

"You wanna get into this now? I mean, really?"

The hierophant finished his chant, but nothing happened. "You ruined everything." He got to his feet, sword in hand, and turned to face the brothers. He pointed his sword at Dean. "All you had to do was finish the ritual. I would have taken care of that one for you."

"The only one who is gonna take care of Sammy is me," Dean said.

The hierophant lunged forward, half trying to get around Dean, but mostly trying to impale himself on Dean's sword. Dean could have moved out of the way, but anything trying to get to Sam would have to go through him. Things had always been that way. The world was better when things were that way.

Cyce screamed as the blade sliced through his chest. Blood spilled onto the floor. Cyce fell forward, steadying himself by grabbing Dean's shoulders. Dean remained still as the hierophant slid off of his sword and onto the floor.

Sam prodded Cyce with the tip of his sword. The point slid into the flesh with no protestations. Definitely dead. "Maybe he is forbidden from killing himself, and can only die at the hands of another?"

"Like I said, crazy."

Sam went over to the statue and touched the stone. Nothing happened.

"So, now what?"

"I dunno, but you're gonna get me some pie!"


End file.
